Sociopathy and Other Anti-Aphrodisiacs
by Sherlockianfangirl36
Summary: A Sherlolly romance set after HLV but disregarding the reappearance of Moriarty. Sherlock is forced to acknowledge his growing regard for Molly after a former love interest reenters her life. I like fluff, with maybe a tiinnnyyy bit of angst.
1. A Chemical Defect

Excerpt from the blog of John H. Watson:

I used to believe that Sherlock Holmes was more akin to a machine than a man. Certainly one of the ways that he proved this best was his relationship with one of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital's pathologists, Miss Molly Hooper. He used to seem absolutely unaffected by what even I could deduce: Molly Hooper was in love with him; Totally and completely...

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"I can't let you do that Sherlock," Molly said demurely whilst staring at the floor of the lab, "The paper work has already been run for those bodies." Molly stood facing him while he bent over his microscope in the unused lab at Bart's.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, and pursed his lips tightly for a moment, "You...refreshed your lipstick, didn't you? Your mouth doesn't look so small now," he stated while looking into her eyes.

Molly blushed crimson. For a few seconds she believed that Sherlock Holmes was actually flirting with her. Well, in his own, strange way. But, of course, he was just attempting to get her to let him examine the bodies. He'd pulled that trick plenty of times to be sure.

"Sherl-" She started angrily, before glancing over Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock followed her gaze to the approaching figure of Doctor Watson.

"Oh, John, so glad you could finally join me," he said curtly, before returning to his microscope, "Graham is so desperate for me to do his job today." Sherlock took his attention off the microscope, and stood up to straighten his coat.

John sighed, "It's Greg, Sherlock. How many times is it going to take you to get that? Just put it in your bloody mind palace!" John stomped angrily over towards Doctor Hooper, "Good morning, Molly. I apologize in advance for anything Sherlock has said to you in my absence."

"Someone certainly isn't enjoying domesticated life," Sherlock muttered under his breath while rocking back and forth on his heels. John let out an exasperated sigh, and ran his hand through his short hair.

"Good morning, Doctor Watson," she said with a smile, and gave John a hug, which surprised both him and Sherlock. It only lasted a few seconds, but the amusement that John got from the shocked look on Sherlock's face lasted much longer than that. "You looked like you needed that." John smiled appreciatively, and shifted slightly to face Sherlock.

"Now what could you possibly need me so much for that would cause you to text me ninety-three times?"

His brows furrowed and he stared ahead blankly with his hands piqued beneath his chin.

"Hmm..." He mumbled. Without any further warning, he walked across the room and out the door, staring ahead the entire time.

"Well that was...strange. He's been waiting for you at least an hour. Why should he just leave like that?"

John smiled.

"I think it's my turn to go deduce him, for once."

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John arrived by cab at 221B Baker Street shortly after the scene at Bart's. He walked up the steps, and put the key into the lock.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

His shouting was immediately followed by the crashing sound of a pan, and the scream of his landlady. She came out the door and looked frustratedly at John.

"I'm sorry for all the racket, John. Sherlock's gotten me a bit worked up today."

"Worked up? How?"

Mrs. Hudson came closer to John, and, presumably so Sherlock couldn't overhear, whispered,

"Well, he came into here about twenty minutes ago, shoutin' and screamin' like nothing I ever heard. Then a few minutes ago I heard a gunshot,"

The shooting did not surprise John. The shouting, however, did surprise him.

"Did you happen to hear what he was shouting about, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Of course, dear. I think everyone on Baker Street heard him," she chuckled.

"What did he say, then"

"Well, between his mumblin', he was shoutin' 'Molly Hooper,' and 'Bart's,' and 'sentiment,' over and over again."

John grinned widely, and giggled, "Well, well, well, was he now?"

"Sherlock?" John shouted from the doorway, "Are you in here?" He kept shouting until he realized that Sherlock would not answer him even if he was inside the flat.

After a brief search, John found him curled up in a ball on the sofa.

"Sherlock? What are you doing? Do you realize how much trouble I could have gotten into for leaving the office today? You just abandoned me!" Sherlock rolled over and mumbled something inaudible. John took the seat opposite of him and sighed.

"Alright, Sherlock, I think I know what your problem is," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You're jealous because Molly was showing me affection."

"I am not jealous, John!" He shouted in reply, "Sentiment-"

"Is a defect found in the losing side. Yes, I know."

Sherlock groaned. He did not have feelings for the pathologist. Of course he didn't. He was Sherlock Holmes.

"Look, Sherlock, after your...'death..'" John shifted, slightly uncomfortable, "You spent time with her, didn't you? At her flat?"

Sherlock sat up straight on the sofa. He had not even bothered to remove his coat. He looked at John, somewhat irritated, and very much uncomfortable with their present conversation.

'Yes, John," He spat out, "I did. I was with her in her flat until Mycroft relocated me to take down Moriarty's network. Happy?" He threw himself back on the sofa and curled into a ball.

"Lord, Sherlock, stop being such a baby! It's not the end of the world to love somebody."

"I do not...love...her." The words came very strangely out of his mouth.

"But you do care about her, don't you? She told me all about the day you two spent together solving crimes."

Sherlock moaned again.

"Alright. Just keep being like that, Sherlock. That woman has been in love with you for years. God knows why she broke off her engagement, but maybe, just maybe, there was a reason for that."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

John stood up, "I'm going back to my office. Maybe you should think about what I said." He walked out the room and slammed the door.

Sherlock sat up. There was absolutely nothing for him to think about. He was, by his own admission, a sociopath, and had been reliably informed of his lack of feelings. But he had told Molly how much she meant to him. And just what would have happened that day had she not been engaged?


	2. Molly's Type

Molly Hooper was finished with Sherlock. He had caused her so many problems in the past, and even though he _had_ at one point expressed his feelings for her rather nicely, she chalked it up to being a fluke in his otherwise purely mechanical being.

Sociopaths could no longer be her type. She would've thought that with everything that happened with Tom, she would've finally understood that.

What she needed was someone like John. Yes, someone who would genuinely care about her as a person, and not feel shy about expressing it.

Maybe Molly could even get up the nerve to refuse to help Sherlock with any of his cases. She didn't have to, after all. Would she be capable of doing that? And how long could she last if he was staring at her with his big, blue, puppy-dog eyes? Not long, she suspected. She suspected that Sherlock knew that as well, hence his futile flirting earlier that day. That was absolutely the last time she would ever let him even try that despicable trick on her.

Molly had just begun to focus on her work (The heart of a sociopath, she suspected, given its size) when she was startled by a deep, sultry voice...

"Doctor Hooper?" She heard from outside the lab. A few seconds later the doors swung open, and Sherlock walked in. He was dressed sharply as always, but looked slightly disconcerted. "Doctor Hoo-Oh, there you are. Is John here?" He walked slowly over to the table at which she was sitting, and leaned down close to her.

"Wh-why would John be here?" she stammered. His hair had fallen in front of his face, and it took every ounce of her will to reach out and brush it back. She wanted to run her fingers through that thick, lovely, dark hair. But she couldn't. There was certainly no way she was going to let those thoughts have any effect on her.

"Oh, I don't know. I thought he might change his mind about going back to that mundane practice of his." Molly took a deep breath. If she was going to completely forget about Sherlock, then she needed to start being firm with both him, and herself.

"Well then, is there something you wanted...Mr. Holmes?" Sherlock's brow crinkled, and he brought his head back slightly, shocked by the formality.

"Yes, actually, I wanted y-" He began, before being interrupted by Molly.

"Nope. Sorry." She said curtly. It was hard to deny him anything when he was close enough for her to feel his breath on her hair.

"But I haven't even asked you for anything yet!" He stood up straight now and backed away from her.

"I'm sure that you are going to ask one of three things, Mr. Holmes. Care to deduce them for me?" He inhaled sharply and bit his lower lip. "Well?" He looked down at the floor, and began very quietly with his list.

"The first and most likely possibility would be to examine those bodies which you so staunchly refused to show me earlier. The second most likely possibility would be for you to supply me with some body part or another for one of my numerous experiments, and the last, albeit still a likely possibility, is that I would like to use this lab for my own purposes."

"Quite correct, Mr. Holmes, and I could get in trouble for any one of those. Wouldn't want me losing my job, now would you?" She returned to examining the heart.

"You haven't lost it yet. And given your boss's left thumb, I'd say that you are not going to."

Molly completely ignored his last comment. She did not even give him the satisfaction of looking at his rather hurt face. She knew those big, blue, puppy-dog eyes would be waiting for her. She knew exactly how they would make her feel.

"Molly?" He started.

"Hmm?" She grumbled without looking up.

"Why did you-I mean, was there a specific reason that..."

She lifted her head slightly, now interested by the fact that Sherlock had become tongue-tied.

"What are you trying to say?"

He remained silent for quite some time before answering, "Nothing. It is quite irrelevant."

She nodded slightly before returning to her work. What was Sherlock's trying to say to her? It didn't matter to her. In his own words, it was "quite irrelevant."

Sherlock waited around a few minutes longer before he decided that one, John was not going to show unless he texted him for the ninety-fourth time (and maybe not even then), and that, two, Molly Hooper was not speaking to him. Then, he turned around and exited out the door through which he came. Molly didn't even look up once.

Sherlock tried to deduce why that had just happened, whatever it was that had just happened; the great consulting detective was not quite sure. He tried using his mind palace, searching in every place that he could think of, but, since he had almost no experience with women outside of Molly (and, of course, The Woman), he knew he had to look elsewhere.

Sherlock reached the street and managed to flag down a cab within a few seconds. He instructed the driver to take him over to John's practice.

Why should Molly refuse to help him after all of these years? And why had she started referring to him as "Mr. Holmes?" The most important question that Sherlock had was this: Why did it mean so much to him, anyway? He hadn't even come to ask her any of the favors from her list of three. He had intended nothing of the sort, but, given the tone that she was using with him, he deduced that it would have been all but pointless to say so.

He was so lost in thought by the time he reached John's practice, that the cab driver had to shake him out of his reverie.

Sherlock was going to have to consult John for once.


	3. Surnames and Mind Games

John was startled to walk into his office and find Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the examination table. He looked very disheveled compared to his normal appearance.

"Oh, hello, John. I've been waiting for you." He stated quite plainly.

"Well that's a bit obvious, Sherlock. What are you doing here?" He sounded slightly irritated and concerned at the same time. That was the state John was usually in. It was, however, predominantly irritation.

Sherlock took in a deep breath and sucked on his bottom lip while shifting his sitting position.

"Wait, hang on, let me guess," John said, gesturing upwards with his hands, "Considering how uncomfortable it's making you, and given your frankly childish behavior in the flat, I'd venture a guess to say you've come to talk about Molly. Am I correct?" John smiled widely when he'd finished. He did not need Sherlock to answer him to know that his deduction was one-hundred percent accurate.

Sherlock slid himself off the table and tugged upwards on his coat collar.

"Well since you've already deduced as much, there's no use in my repeating what you and I-" He was cut off by John.

"Yeah, but I want to hear you say it," Sherlock tilted his head to the side and set his mouth in a firm line, "Go on, then. Tell me why you're here in my office."

"John..."

He only responded by raising his eyebrows, and taking a seat at the corner of the room.

"Come on now, Sherlock. You never spoke a single word to me about Janine. Why should Molly be different? Hmm?" He crossed his arms.

"Because!" Sherlock began in a loud tone before calming himself down, "Because...I didn't...care...about Janine..." His eyes darted across the room. He was still entirely reluctant to admit that he had any sort of romantic attachment to the mousy pathologist.

"And you do care about Molly, despite your sulking in the flat." John finished. "I know that, Sherlock. I could tell earlier today, when she hugged me," Sherlock turned red, "Dear God..." John exclaimed, "You're bloody blushing, aren't you?" John put his face down into his hands to try and control his imminent outbreak of laughter.

"John..."

John chuckled in response, "I should take a picture for Lestrade!"

"You will do no such thing!" Sherlock shouted.

John smiled again, and Sherlock seated himself back on the table, putting his head in his hands. He groaned.

"Look, umm...John. I didn't come here to discuss my...feelings," He wrinkled his face as he said the word, "for Doctor Hooper."

"Why are you here, then?" He asked incredulously.

Sherlock took another deep breath, and told John everything that just happened at Bart's from the beginning. When he'd finished stating the main points, he began over again with,

"She called me 'Mr. Holmes,' John, 'Mr. Holmes!'"

"Alright, Sherlock, calm down. Just because a woman uses your surname is no reason to get so worked up." John was trying as hard as he could to not laugh at his friend. He had never seen him behaving like this before. It did not take long, however, to change back into his usual self.

"But she wouldn't let me use the lab, and it is interfering with my work," Sherlock knew it was a lie that he had gone to Bart's only to use the lab. "I need to know what to do to keep her from restricting me from the lab, and thereby impeding my working process."

John didn't hesitate long before saying, "Yeah, well maybe, and this is going way out on a limb here, but just maybe she got tired of you being such an obnoxious sod all of the time."

Sherlock looked hurt by John's comment.

"Oh, don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, Sherlock. You even called yourself an arsehole in your best man's speech!" Sherlock looked down at the floor. John softened a bit. "Look," He sighed, "What I'm trying to say is that if you start to treat her a bit more like the lady she is, she might let you back...into the lab."

Sherlock blinked a few times and twisted his mouth before shaking his head and answering in one sharp breath, "I don't know how to do that."

John sighed, "Well, Sherlock, perhaps Mary and I could help you come up with some solutions later tonight.. But for now could you get out of here, please? I have patients!"

Sherlock leaped off the table and left in a sulky manner out the door.

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It took him about twenty minutes to return to 221B by cab, leaving plenty of time for him to delve into his mind palace to work on his present case. At least, that's what he tried to do. Every thought he had would always somehow turn back to Molly, Molly, Molly.

He thought about how often he had brushed aside her affections, how often he had disregarded her wishes, how often he had ignored her offers for help. Only now was he beginning to see the effects it was having on her. Still, with what had happened between them in her flat...Of course, that was such a long time ago. Would it even make a difference to her now?

"Case," He thought to himself. "Case, case, case, case." But it was utterly useless. Every thing, every shred of evidence would somehow only lead him to thinking about Molly.

This had gotten to be absolutely ridiculous. He couldn't harbor feelings for a woman if it was going to do this to his mind. The thoughts he had only moments ago about himself and Molly came to a crashing halt. He could not let this continue any further. After all, what more was sentiment than a chemical defect found in the losing side?


	4. A Visit from an Old Friend

Molly Hooper was proud of herself. There was no other way she could put it. She had managed to refuse Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, the man with the big, blue, puppy-dog, eyes. Sherlock Holmes, the man with the lovely, thick, curly hair.

Sherlock Holmes, the man who flirted with her so he could see dead bodies. _Not even bodies_ , she thought, _He'd flirted with me to see dead men's_ feet _before!_

Now, if only she could find a man like John...Someone that would care for her unrelentingly, to whom she could trust all her feelings without a fear of rejection. That was certainly something she would never have with Sherlock.

"Molly," She jumped slightly at the voice coming from behind her. How many times was she going to be interrupted today? She turned around expecting Sherlock to have returned again to try one last time to see the bodies. Instead, she saw a different man, with the same up-turned coat-collar.

"Tom."

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"I'm so glad you're home, John," said Mary from a sitting position in her favorite chair. "The baby's been kicking at me all day. How much longer do I have to stay home from work before she decides to come out?"

John stared ahead vacantly with the remnants of a sly grin on his face.

"What?" She asked, "Did Sherlock drug your tea again?"

John widened his smile, "No, Mary dear, he did not. That's not at all what he did," he said vaguely before taking the seat closest to his wife.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," He started, "He came into my office today, ranting as usual-"

"And that's got you smiling, yeah?" She said wryly. She put her hands over his, stretching across the gap between their chairs.

"Well, if you'd let me finish explaining, it would make more sense."

"Right," she said while pulling an imaginary zipper over her lips.

"Well," He began again, and then proceeded to relate the events of the day, not excluding the brief embrace that he received from Miss Hooper.

"She hugged you?"

"Yeah, well, that's not important," he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, "What is important is that my friend, Sherlock Holmes is-"

"Bored!" A shout came from the window at the other side of the room.

John rushed over to the window and pushed up the pane.

"Sherlock! Why can you not just ring the bell like a normal human being!" Sherlock blinked up a few times at John before saying,

"Was that actually a real question?"

"Yeah, well, I suppose not."

"Hi, Sherlock, dear!" Mary shouted from across the room.

He hoisted himself up to the window sill and climbed through the frame before announcing,

"I need a case, John."

John squinted up at him with his lips pursed, "I'm sorry, but haven't you been helping out Greg with a case?"

"Oh, that. That case is so simple even Geoffrey-"

"Greg!" both John and Mary interjected.

"Yes, well. That case was so easy that even... _Greg_...could solve it. The murderer was obviously the babysitter."

John stared at him a moment before replying.

"Right then, I suppose you're here to talk about Mo-"

"No!" He shouted, "I am here to see if you would like to take a break from the dullness of domesticity," Mary made a face at him, "and join me in a most intriguing case"

"Which is?"

Sherlock reached into the pocket of his wool coat and pulled out his phone. Opening his email and handing it to John, he began to explain the case out loud to Mary.

"Mr. Hilton Cubitt. On checking my email, I see that he sent me this quite a few days ago. He was recently married to a Miss Elsie Patrick, under some rather strange circumstances. She refused to tell him anything of her past-sound familiar John?" He moaned in reply, "Anyway, He was so...'in love'" Sherlock choked out, "with her...that he agreed to marry her no matter the circumstances. I understood their marriage has been a relatively happy one so far, but a few weeks ago the wife starting receiving letters from America. She was quite alarmed. But that's not all," He paused for a dramatic effect, "The husband found a coded message written on one of his windowsills, the sight of which caused Mrs. Cubitt to faint; I believe you will see a photograph attached in the email."

Watson viewed the photograph of what appeared to be a child's drawing-absurd little sketches of dancing men.

"What do they mean?" He asked.

"That's what I'm supposed to find out, John...obviously."

"When are you going to start your investigation?"

"Tomorrow morning," Sherlock made a semi-pouting face, "Can you get someone to cover for you then?"

John looked over at Mary who only smiled and gave him a reassuring nod.

"Alright, tomorrow morning it is. But for now can we please eat some dinner, Sherlock? You seemed keen earlier to coming over here to discuss what you needed to do about Mo-"

"Not now, John!" He yelled, and then cleared out his throat, "I...Um, well, I am entirely sure that I can think of my own solutions in time."

"Are you sure, Sherlock? You know about as much about women as I do about telling airline pilots by their thumbs, and software designers by their ties," He smirked. Mary smiled over at him before adding,

"I'm sure I could help you out there, too, Sherlock."

He inhaled sharply, and John would have sworn that he started to blush again.

"I told you I did not come to discuss Miss Hooper. I came to ask you about a case. I have done so, and you have assented to helping me investigate. Need I stay here any further?"

"You could have dinner with us," Mary said.

"I'm not hungry," He replied before turning around and climbing rather unceremoniously out the open window.

John sighed. Mary spoke up after a few moments of silence.

"He's really in love with her, isn't he?"


	5. A Case

"Tom, what are you doing here?" Molly just barely managed to squeak out

He shook his head nervously a few times before replying, "I-I...I just had to see you."

Molly's brows knit together and lowered her head, "I thought you made yourself perfectly clear on the point that you never wanted to see me again."

"I know!" He cried out, "I was a complete an total idiot! A jealous, stupid idiot."

Molly smiled a bit, but never raised her head, "I suppose you were at that. You should've known that I love..." She paused, catching her mistake, "That I _loved_ you more than anyone else."

He sucked in a quick breath, summoning all his courage, "Molly...I know we parted rather acrimoniously, but...If you could see to it...Could you...I mean, would you be willing to give me just one more chance?"

Tears welled up in Molly's eyes and she raised her head so their eyes met together, "Oh, Tom. I don't know..."

"Please?" He pleaded, "We can start over; just have a coffee together...Just like normal friends do."

Molly paused to think about his offer.

"Coffee. That's it."

Maybe she'd found her man that was just enough like John. But looking up into his eyes for those few, precious seconds, she thought, _Is that what I really want?_

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Seven O''clock the next morning, a Saturday, found John and Sherlock seated together in the back of a cab on their way across the city. It was a fairly long drive, and John could tell that Sherlock was not in the mood for conversation. Considering how he had been acting about Molly lately, though, he found it necessary to try.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" He replied with his eyes closed and his hands peaked beneath his chin as usual.

"Why didn't you want to talk about Molly yesterday?"

Sherlock's eyes popped open and he exhaled sharply, "I thought the case was more important at the time, and seeing as how I will most likely not be needing any assistance from anyone at Bart's for this case, I believe that my assumption was quite accurate."

John sighed and adjusted his seating slightly. He thought for a moment before asking,

"Did something happen between you two? I mean when you were supposed to be dead. At her flat, what happened?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "That's such a vague question, John."

"No. I don't think it is. I think that you just don't want to answer it. Heaven forbid that Sherlock Bloody Holmes admit to feeling anything for a sweet, attractive woman that was nice enough to let him sleep in her flat when he was supposed to be dead!"

"John," He paused, "Now is not the appropriate time to be asking me such personal questions. We are on a case."

He tossed up his hands in resignation, and remained silent for the rest of the trip.

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Quite some time later, John and Sherlock were standing on the steps of a rather ordinary looking house with a small tool-shed in the side yard. The only redeeming quality of the house was its garden. There were beautiful flowers placed strategically around the walk-way and front-door. Sherlock took his phone from his pocket and captured pictures of both the house and the shed.

Sherlock rang the bell and waited a few minutes after no answer before trying again. A few seconds later, the door was opened by a tall, good-looking, young man with short cropped brown hair.

"Mr. Cubbit?"

"Yes," He replied, "You must be the detective," He motioned his hands inside the house, "Come in, come. We've just had another of those strange messages. Written on the window of our tool-shed, this time."

"I know." Sherlock replied.

Mr. Cubitt stared sideways at him as he walked through the door.

"Don't even ask," John whispered to him, "It'll only encourage him."

"How did you know?" He asked anyway.

Sherlock shook his head, "Are you all blind or something? It was clearly visible from the doorstep. It looked to be painted within the last few hours. Incredibly simply. How did you not notice it, John? I even took pictures while you were staring at those little butterflies."

"I honestly don't know," he replied genuinely. For once, his deduction really was a straightforward one.

Soon they were all seated in the living room of the house, a very plainly decorated, stuffy little room.

"Is your wife home today?" Sherlock asked..

"Yes," he replied, "She's asleep upstairs."

"Oh, well. Then we shan't disturb her."

Sherlock looked the man up and down before questioning, "How much do you actually know about your wife, Mr. Cubitt?"

"Not all that much, to be honest with you. I know what kind of person she is: kind, loving, genuine..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he continued the list.

"Yes, but what do you know about her past?" He asked.

Mr. Cubitt inhaled deeply and leaned back in his chair, "I don't know anything at all about it. She won't tell me. She told me She wouldn't tell me before we got married, and I took her just like that."

There was silence in the room.

"You don't think that my wife was involved in some sort of crime, do you?" He asked nervously.

"I cannot yet tell you that," he paused momentarily, "Your wife likes to garden, doesn't she?"

He raised his head up, "Why, yes, she does. She does a fine job of it, too."

"Yes, I could see that."

Sherlock sat still for a minute before rising from his seat, and announcing, "I require more evidence before I can give you a definite verdict. If you receive anymore of these coded messages, contact me immediately."

Mr. Cubitt looked shocked for a moment before asking, "That's it? You come and ask if my wife likes to garden and then you leave?"

"Yes, I'm afraid that's it."

Sherlock walked to the door and let himself out.

"I'm sorry about him," John told Mr. Cubitt, "He's always like that."

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"Isn't this case fascinating, John?" Sherlock asked enthusiastically while showing him the pictures he had taken on his phone. "All I need is a few more of these messages and I can solve it!"

"Yeah, of course," He said disinterestedly, "Now, about Molly..."


	6. Someone to Care About

Thanks to all of you awesome people that followed/favorited/reviewed this story! Xoxo

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"Sherlock..." John started, "We are no longer investigating. We are sitting some nice comfortable chairs, in your flat, doing absolutely nothing. Now, please, will you tell me what happened between you and Molly?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and shifted so the his legs were crossed beneath his body "What makes you think that...something...happened between us? I would simply love to hear your deductions!" His speech was thoroughly permeated with sarcasm.

John sighed, "Well, Sherlock, you were alone with a beautiful woman," Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, before John cut hum off, "And don't you dare tell me one more time exactly what you think about beauty!" He paused, "Now, where was I? Ah, right. You were completely alone with a beautiful woman; it's not unnatural to think that something could have happened between the two of you."

Sherlock sighed, "That is all speculation."

"But it's true, though, isn't it?" Sherlock didn't respond to his question. "Just tell me what happened," John prodded.

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked at the floor, before beginning in a whisper, "Please keep in mind that I would positively never, under any circumstances promote anything like sentiment by discussing so openly with another person, but as you-"

"Just please get on with it, Sherlock. We both know you want to tell me."

Sherlock wiped both his hands over his face, "Fine," he grumbled, "To tell you how this happened would take up too much of your time, and I know you wish to be with Mary now. Which makes perfect sense, considering the short period of time that you have been married; I really think-"

"Sherlock!" John interrupted, "I would like to get home by the end of the week, please."

"I got into a fight," he blurted out, "My face was badly cut up, and apparently I made too much noise when I entered the flat, because I managed to wake up both Molly and her cat, Toby. She came out of her bedroom in a mildly attractive night shirt, and asked me what on earth I was doing up so late," Sherlock stopped talking.

"And?"

"And...She turned on the light. After her eyes adjusted, she could see my face; she was quite alarmed. She murmured something about first aid, and rushed into her bathroom. I sat down in a chair at the corner of the room. A few seconds later she was leaning over me with her elbows resting on my knees, which was not an entirely unwelcome sensation. She started dabbing at my face with a damp cloth, and..."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"John...Under no circumstances shall you ever repeat this conversation to anyone."

"I won't, I promise; just tell me what happened!"

"Well, as I was saying, she was leaning over me dabbing at my face, and I grabbed on to her wrist. Our faces were just barely a few inches apart, and it seemed like the appropriate thing to do to kiss her. After that, things just started to happen. I've never...felt...anything more pleasurable that didn't actually involve a murder or-"

"Things?" John interjected, "And you were on to my case about my ambiguity?"

"Yes, John...things" His face reddened darkly, "I'll leave you to your own deductions on that point."

John stopped to think for a moment.

"Sherlock? If Molly was in love with you, and you...kissed her, why aren't you two...I don't know, a couple?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes once more and scoffed at him, before saying, "Obviously John, I had to go dismantle Moriarty's network. I came back and she had Tom," he whispered more quietly under his breath, "How do ordinary people function from day to day?"

"Yeah, but what happened between the time you..did 'things'...and when you left?"

Sherlock's mouth hung open a few seconds before he answered, "We...Umm...Continued in that pattern for weeks. But then I...I couldn't think, John. I had to stop. I left. Tom came."

"Tom's out of the picture now, Sherlock."

"John..."

"What, Sherlock? Just what is the matter? There is absolutely nothing stopping you from getting that girl-a girl you would be lucky to have, and yet you're stubbornly refusing to do anything about it!"

Sherlock stayed calm, "When we first met, I told you I was married to my work. Don't you see how distracting it would be to have someone like Molly? Especially now that I have Mr. Cubbit's case? Besides, have you not ever thought about how terrible of a...boyfriend..." he scowled, "I would make? Not to mention what that woman does to my mind palace, it's really quite unnerving, not to mention-"

"Excuse me?" John interrupted.

"My mind palace, John. It's become a jumbled mess. I can't be with someone in that way if it does _this_ to me."

"But don't you see that your mind palace is jumbled either way? It was like that when you had her all to yourself, and it's like that now that she's moved on from you."

Sherlock had no witty rebuttals for John this time.

There was absolute silence in the room before Sherlock said, "She hugged you. She's never done that to me."

John looked over at Sherlock, not quite hiding the grin he got from the confirmation of Sherlock's jealousy the day before, "Well, why should she? You would just push her away from you, right?"

Sherlock looked down at his feet nestled beneath his thin frame.

John sighed, "You know, it's not all that bad to have someone to care about."

"I already have someone to care about," Sherlock said while looking over towards John.

"Yeah but you don't have someone to-"

"Yes, I know!" He shouted, throwing his head back and closing his eyes.

They were both quiet before John chuckled, "Mycroft was right, you know. Sex really does alarm you."


	7. Molly's Case of the Wounded Detective

Flashback chapter! I'm going to give a more detailed account of what happened between Molly and Sherlock. Sorry if it gets a little repetitive, but I want to tell it from both of their perspectives. This chapter goes to Molly; next is for Sherlock.

Thanks again for all the feedback! If you haven't already, pretty, pretty please won't you review?

Inspiration for this chapter's content goes to applejacks0808! Thanks so much!

Also, I've gotten 5,000 hits on this story. Not that much, but certainly a personal best on this site. Xoxo to all my readers!

Random useless fact: This is the longest chapter of any story that I have ever written.

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Molly Hooper sat directly across from Tom at a table in the diner that was just down the street from Bart's. She stared at him while sipping at her steaming cup of coffee.

"So..." She cleared her throat, and lowered her coffee, "Why are you here? Why now?"

Tom shifted uncomfortably in his seat and ran a finger down into the top of his shirt collar, "Well, umm... Just being without you, Molly...And knowing how much I had hurt you, and how wrong I was," Molly raised up both of her eyebrows, "I just couldn't stand being away from you anymore!"

Molly sighed and ran her fingers through her long, brown hair, "Might I remind you that you were the one who broke off the engagement; you were the one who accused me of being in love with someone else."

"I-I know," he stammered, "I thought you were. The way you looked at him..."

"I told you he was just my friend," Molly almost whispered, trying to keep herself from crying as long as was possible. Suddenly all the pain she had felt from being without him had started to resurface. "Look, Tom...This, Coffee. Us. I don't think this is a good idea."

Tom cupped his face in his hands and remained silent a few seconds before saying, "Alright. Just think about it a few days, will you?" Molly looked down into her lap, "Please."

She nodded her head solemnly, "Yes, alright. I'll think about it." Tom smiled back at her, "But right now I have to get back to work."

Molly's mind was on anything but her work. Tom had come back. That is what she wanted, wasn't it? Tom had made her so happy before. But even he had never been able to make her feel quite the same as she had on that night...

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 _Molly had been fast asleep in her bed when she was awoken by a thudding sound from the other room. **Oh great** , she thought, **which of my possessions is he ruining this time?** She hope inwardly he had only slammed the door. _

_She got up slowly out of her bed, her equilibrium off from the haze of sleep. When she was half-way to the front door, she realized that it would probably have been wise to cover herself with more than the shirt she was wearing; she didn't want any unsolicited remarks from Sherlock about it. **It's too late now** , she told herself, more to justify appearing before Sherlock in so little clothes than to actually vindicate her attire._

 _When she reached the door, her eyes had still not been able to able to adjust to the dark._

 _"What on earth are you doing making so much noise?" She asked while fumbling blindly for the light switch, "Do you even realize what time-" She stopped when the light came on and she was able to see Sherlock's face; there was a long cut down the side of his face, swelling rapidly and turning an unsettling shade of purple. "I'll go get the first aid-kit," she muttered before rushing into the bathroom._

 _ **Oh lord** , she thought, **what has he done to himself now?** Molly scrambled back to the doorway, bandages and cloth in hand. Sherlock was gone._

 _"Sherlock?"_

 _"I'm right here," he said from the living room._

 _Molly exhaled a sigh of relief and found Sherlock hunched over in her favorite armchair pressing his hand against his face. Molly rushed over towards him and knelt in front of him, resting her elbows on his knees._

 _ **You're pushing it, Molly,** She criticized herself, full well knowing she wouldn't pass up a chance to be that close to Sherlock Holmes. Even if he had been a huge pain in her neck ever since his "death."_

 _"Move your hands, please," She asked, surprisingly without stuttering. She would've made a bigger fuss over him if she didn't already know exactly how he would react to that. **Stop blubbering, it won't help to remedy the situation...** She blocked his voice out of her head._

 _He still keep cupping his injured face in his hands. A shiver ran down her spine when she had to grab his hands and pull them away herself. **Focus, Molly, focus...** She started dabbing at the swollen wound on his face._

 _"What did you do now?"_

 _"Just a mundane fight. The other man left in an ambulance," he chuckled. A low, sultry chuckle that sent Molly's stomach fluttering._

 _Molly looked at him disapprovingly. Her eyes were met by his, which looked surprisingly soft at the moment._

 ** _Lord, he smells so good..._**

 _Molly froze when she felt his fingers graze the wrist of her free hand. He curled his fingers around her wrist until he was holding her whole hand, never breaking eye contact with her_

 ** _What...Is happening...?_**

 _She dropped her cloth when he started to lean forward. She inhaled sharply and swallowed._

 ** _Oh lord, oh lord, what is he doing?_**

 _She closed her eyes and leaned into him; their lips met. He kissed her slowly and softly, pulling back after a few seconds._

 ** _Why is this happening?_** _Molly sat frozen in front of him, her eyes opened wide._

 _Sherlock drew back slightly, "Was that not good?" He asked, looking at her with his blue, puppy-dog eyes, and dropping her hand._

 _Molly almost laughed. It wasn't the best kiss she'd ever had, but it was with him. That was all she wanted._

 _"It was perfectly acceptable," she responded, mimicking his speech._

 _Sherlock smiled in relief and leaned in to kiss her again. The kiss was more intense, this time; desperate, almost._

 _ **It should be** , Molly thought, **I've been waiting years for this.**_

 _Sherlock moved himself out of his seat and onto the floor with Molly, never breaking the kiss. She coiled her fingers through his lovely, dark hair, and he wrapped his long arms around her waist, fiercely roving her body with his hands, occasionally breaking away to caress her skin with light kisses. He leaned into her until the were both lying on the cold floor._

 _"Couch," he murmured against her lips, "Your floor is rather uncomfortable," Molly broke away and started to squirm from beneath him to get up, "Wait," he said._

 _Sherlock pushed himself up off of the floor and put one arm beneath Molly's knees, and the other beneath her neck. In one fluid motion, he picked her up off the floor and laid her on the couch. Molly giggled._

 _That night was the best Molly had ever had. She kissed Sherlock Holmes, (Sherlock Holmes!), for what seemed like days, and then fell asleep in his arms on her couch._

 _Years later she could still recall exactly what it felt like to have him breathing against her neck as he slept._

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Molly got her thoughts back to the present. That wasn't the only time she and Sherlock had gone well beyond the boundaries of normal friendship. But then he just left-for two years. He had barely even said goodbye to Molly. She'd cried for nights (even though she all along expected for him to do something like that). She had never counted upon him to be capable of a romantic attachment.

As disturbing as it was, Molly knew that it had just been some sort of experiment for Sherlock. She was sure he had a logical explanation for everything they'd done in her flat. He had never talked to Molly about it-certainly not. Any time she had tried to bring it up, he just started discussing his cases with her.

So what exactly had gone on in his mind?


	8. Sherlock's Case of the Mousy Pathologist

It's been a long time since I've written anything, so I apologize if ya'll don't like this chapter. I tried my best :)

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Sherlock sat silently in his favorite chair, hands piqued beneath his chin, as always

He had a case to solve. In his own opinion, it should have been solved by now. The only thing standing in the way were his unorthodox thoughts about Molly; they seemed to be the only thing he could focus on without becoming bored.

The way his mind was clouded over now, he surely was not going to get work done.

It was a favorite game of his when he got in this state to see how many of the facts from his cases he could bring up by memory without consulting John's blog, or the occasional notes that he himself would take down.

There was one case in particular he insisted on replaying in his mind, over and over.

 **No** , he thought, **_that_ case certainly does nothing to improve your mental acuity...**

The case of the Mousy Pathologist:

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 _Sherlock had just arrived at the door of the flat he currently shared with Molly Hooper. Getting the keys out his pocket was easy enough, but seeing where exactly the key-hole was happened to be quite a different story._

 _As it turns out, dismantling the underground network of the most dangerous man in Britain was certainly not the easiest (or safest) task that Sherlock had ever undertaken. He had learned just that tonight, when a little digging for facts landed him with a nasty gash across the side of his face, which was currently dripping blood down over his closed eyelid._

 _In this confused and half-blind state, Sherlock entered into the flat, and promptly tripped over Molly's rotund cat, Toby._

 _"Cursed feline!" He muttered while lifting himself off of the cold, tile entrance. Falling certainly did wonders to exacerbate the pain of blunt-force trauma wounds._

 _Once he'd managed to set himself aright, Sherlock straightened out his coat, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his head. Holding his head in his hands, he was only vaguely aware of Molly entering the room, berating him for his unceremonious entry, turning on the light, muttering something about first-aid, and leaving again._

 _Sherlock could narrowly make out the shape of what come to be **his** chair in the corner of the sitting room. As carefully as he could (and, admittedly, as watchful of felines as could be possible in his present state) he made his way over, and gently seated himself._

 _He had recovered his senses enough to look up when Molly entered the room_

 _ **I've never seen her wearing that before,** he thought, ignoring the tingling sensation in his stomach that arrived promptly at the sight of Molly in nothing but a night shirt. In fact, it looked like it was one of his shirts. One that he was sure he'd put in the laundry bin earlier that day._

 _"Sherlock?" He heard her call, as she had not spotted slumped over in his chair quite yet._

 _"I'm right here," he grumbled out, still cupping his face in his hands. The pain had now reduced to a dull, throbbing sensation, which was lessened every time he looked at the pathologist's legs._

 _Sherlock was unprepared for her running over to him and placing her elbows gingerly on his knees._

 ** _This is not entirely unpleasant..._**

 _Yes. That was definitely his shirt. His favorite purple shirt. The one that Molly was always fawning over. It did not do much to cover her, especially seeing as how she left the majority of the top unbuttoned._

 ** _It is not my fault for noticing, not when she is the one placing herself in front of me like this._**

 _"Move your hands, please," She said in a steady, commanding voice. Sherlock looked up, too surprised by her tone (and the current dilation of her pupils) to acquiesce to her wishes._

 _She took his hand in hers and removed it from his face forcibly, while dabbing at the wound on his face._

 _ **I like this Molly Hooper,** he thought, momentarily, before being sure to alter his thoughts to, **I am rather pleased to see that she has finally gotten over being overtly flustered at the sight of me.**_

 _"What did you do now?" She asked in that same stern voice she had been using since he arrived._

 _"Just a mundane fight. The other man left in an ambulance," He answered, desperately trying to keep his eyes on her face._

 _He thought he detected disapproval in her eyes._

 _ **As if I could keep out of the fight** , he thought, **How could I have helped doing something so natural as that?**_

 _Sherlock moved his gaze down the doctor's body._

 ** _Perhaps there are other natural things I can't keep myself from doing..._**

 _Sherlock grazed her delicate wrist with his long fingers. Her eyes opened wide._

 ** _And Perhaps I should see if there are any adverse affects accompanying such natural desires..._**

 _With this thought in mind, he gently transitioned to holding her hand, watching for her response._

 _It was just as he had expected. She was shocked by his actions._

 _Sherlock leaned into Molly until their lips met._

 _Sherlock Holmes did not know how to kiss; he had no practical experience...but when his lips met with Molly's, even the most illogical expressions of human affections became perfectly natural to him._

 _ **That was most definitely not an unpleasant sensation,** he thought, while backing away to see her face._

 _She did still look shocked, but most definitely not pleased. He dropped her hand_

 _"Was that not good?"_

 _Molly exhaled, trying to hide a smile, "It was perfectly acceptable," she answered in a distinctly Sherlockian voice._

 _In spite of himself, Sherlock smiled._

 ** _It is only a test, there is no need to be so pleased. It is not logical._**

 _..._

 ** _Forget logic._**

 _Sherlock leaned against her again, kissing her harder this time. He kissed her fiercely. Never before had he felt this way towards another human being._

 _He leaned forward again, until he was out of his chair and on the floor with Molly. He put his arms around her, trying to be even closer to her than was possible. She started to run her thin fingers through his curly hair, prompting a moan from Sherlock. Molly pulled away and smiled at him._

 ** _How could this possibly be wrong?_**

 _He moved his hands across the curves of her body, memorizing every facet. He gently kissed the skin below her ear, down to her neck, across her collar bone, and into the crevice of the shirt she had left haphazardly unbuttoned._

 _The pain in his head had ceased a long time ago._

 _"Couch," He whispered with his mouth against her lips, "your floor is rather uncomfortable."_

 _Molly backed away and started to push herself off the floor when Sherlock whispered to her again, "Wait."_

 _Sherlock cradled her in his arms, easily lifting her and setting her down onto her soft couch. She chuckled softly at his chivalry._

 _With her lying on the couch, Sherlock crawled up next to her as close as possible, and wrapped her up in his arms, kissing whatever part of her body was most accessible._

 _That's the way he fell asleep._

 _He woke up before Molly, and spent an hour trying to remind himself that he was only testing things._

 _It was definitely not the last test he wanted to make though_.

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Certainly a case like that could never help him improve his wits.


	9. An Experiment

I was not satisfied with the last chapter (meaning I wrote this one twice) I wrote, so I am giving it another go. Really hope this one comes out better! I know it strays a bit from Sherlock's character, but I need to write something fluffy and happy to get over school and life problems XD

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Mary was lounging in her favorite chair, sipping a cup of hot chocolate and watching telly. It really was quite boring; she didn't know what to do with herself at all.

She was just getting the slightest bit sleepy when she heard a light tapping on the door. She set her steaming mug on the end table by her chair and raised herself up.

"Who is it?" She called out.

A few seconds before she reached the door, she heard the reply,

"It's Sherlock."

Mary opened the door and gave Sherlock a welcoming smile, "Come on in, Sherlock. Would you like some hot chocolate?"

Sherlock walked through the front door and straight into the living room.

"No, no thank you Mary."

He seated himself on the couch and stared ahead blankly at the wall. Mary sat down across from him in her chair.

"What do you need, Sherlock?"

He started to speak before cutting himself off abruptly and continuing to stare at the wall.

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you ok?"

He tilted his head to the side and managed to take his eyes off the wall.

"Yes, I'm quite fine, Mary," He said distractedly.

Mary twisted up her mouth in a frustrated manner and tried again,

"You obviously want something from me; showing up here when you know John is not going to be around. Do you think you could possibly focus yourself enough to tell me what it is?"

He did his best to look Mary in the face, "Yes, I did want something from you. As you and John are always so fond of reminding me, women are a bit out of my sphere of experience. I require an outside female opinion."

Mary smirked at him, "It's about Molly, yeah?"

Sherlock sighed, "It just so happens that I need it for a case," he was only half-lying.

Mary tilted her head and gave him a knowing look, "What have I told you before, Sherlock? I am not John, I can tell when you're fibbing to me."

Sherlock shot her a stern glance, before looking once again towards the wall and muttering, "It is about Molly Hooper."

"What's that, Sherlock? I couldn't quite hear you?"

Sherlock cradled his head in his hands and exclaimed, "Oh, hell! Why do you and John persist in tormenting me? It is about Molly Hooper!" He shouted.

Mary couldn't help but chuckle. He acted just like a child when it came to Molly Hooper.

"Well, what sort of 'outside female opinion' are you looking for?"

Sherlock took a deep breath before beginning, "I have often said that to me, love is nothing more than a chemical defect. I still hold that to be true. However, as I am prone to constsantly review The Case of the Mousy Pathologist, I-"

"Excuse me, what?" Mary interrupted.

Sherlock blinked several times, "That is not important. As I was saying," Mary rolled her eyes, "I cannot help but have...natural urges whenever I think about Dr. Hooper. It has an adverse affect on my mind palace," this comment also received an eye roll from Mary, "and I believe it would be to my benefit to begin an experiment seeing whether or not giving in to such urges assists in the recovery of full use of my mind palace," he stopped.

"And what does that have to do with me?" Mary asked.

"I..I wish to know if that is an acceptable way to ask Miss Hooper out," Sherlock turned slightly red.

Mary started to realize what he was trying to say, "Oh, I get it now. You want to see if you and Molly can solve crimes together while having a romantic relationship. You want to see if you can balance mind and body."

Sherlock nodded.

Mary sighed, "Well, for one thing, I would definitely refrain from calling it an 'experiment' in front of her."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, without a hint of sarcasm, "That is all it would be anyway. As you have said, I want to see if I can balances the natural urges of my body with the full function of my mind."

"I doubt she would find that very flattering, Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment.

"She would not accept such an invitation?" After the way John had reacted to Sherlock's sudden reappearance into his life, he had started to better understand that there is, in fact, a wrong way to do things such as this.

"Most likely not, Sherlock."

"But how am I to meet her expectations of what a significant other should be if I only want data for an experiment?"

Mary looked him in the eye, "Are you sure that's all you want, Sherlock?"


	10. Doodles

10,000 hits! I should have a party (meaning I'll stay home and read a book).

Molly was too distracted to concentrate on her paperwork. First of all, Tom was on her mind. She still did not understand why he would suddenly want to make her a part of his life again, not when he had been so adamant before about their breaking off of the engagement.

Second (alright, Molly had to admit, this probably was first on her list), she was thinking about Sherlock. So far, she had well kept up the facade that she was done caring about him. She was almost sure that she had managed to convince him, but she was absolutely positive that she had not convinced herself. So, at the same time, she had done both a magnificent job, and an atrocious one. She hoped inwardly that it would start to become easier to forget about Mr. Holmes.

Some part of her, deep down, thought that it was possible for Sherlock to love her, though. This vague sense of hope was the only thing keeping her from giving him over entirely. He seemed less capable of love than a rock, but she had seen the way he looked at John (which, frankly, made her feel as though her chance with him was significantly lessened, given her naturallly endowed sex).

Was it actually so far fetched to think he could love her, in reality? He had shown some signs of an inclination. In a way. If she stretched the truth a bit. And disregarded ever rude thing he had ever said about her lips, and breasts, and conversation skills, and...Oh, what was the point? Sherlock Holmes was entirely incapable of love, and if Molly hoped of anything from him, then she was deluding herself. How long had she been trying to convince herself of this? About six years, now.

But what about all the things that had happened in her flat? What about the way he had kissed her, and what about falling asleep in his arms?

I **t was an experiment, to him,** she thought, **totally scientific.**

But what about the way he smiled when he had kissed her? Surely that had meant something?

 **Just thinking about him gives me a headache...**

Molly decided it would be best to think about Tom for now. Actually, she decided that it would be best to think about her paperwork, but it did not seem that that was likely to happen at any point in the near future.

She had already mulled over every plausible theory as to why Tom had reemerged in her life. She still wasn't quite sure how she felt about it. It was simultaneously frightening and relieving. One thing was absolutely sure, and that was...that she was no longer sure about anything in her life. She suspected she could not have been too unpleased about it, or she would not have been doodling his name all over her paperwork.

She had been right in the midst of one of these doodles (it was quite lovely calligraphy, if she did say so herself) when she heard the door open behind her. She swiveled around in her chair and saw Sherlock standing in the doorway.

"Oh, Molly," he said, "Stamford said I would find you in here," her heart slowed just a little bit when she saw his square lips curl into a smile.

Molly swallowed, a bit disconcerted by his sudden appearance (and, yes, the smile), "Yes, I'm here. Is there something you need?" She thought briefly about adding "Mr. Holmes" to the end of her sentence, but her nerves got the best of her.

"Yes, actually," he replied, putting his hands in his pockets.

And standing there.

Not saying anything.

She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, "Well? What is it?"

Instead of replying immediately, he moved across the room to station himself by her side, "Yes, well...you see, I was wondering if you-"

He stopped his sentence short when he looked down at her paperwork. His mouth opened and closed a few times, and Molly briefly wondered what he was gaping at when she remembered exactly what she had been doing on her papers.

The doodles.

 **Oh, no.**..She thought.

 **Oh, wait,** she thought again, **Is this bad? I thought I wanted to forget about him?**

She looked up and down from her papers to his face, realizing that he almost looked...hurt? Could she flatter herself by saying Sherlock Holmes looked hurt by her interest in another male?

No, probably not. She covered the top paper with another sheet, anyway.

"Well, Sherlock? What did you want?" She asked again.

Instead of telling her just why he had come, he blurted out, "You've just had coffee with Tom."

"Yes," she said, looking down at the coffee stain on her pastel blouse, "I have," she did not want to say anymore, in case he really was hurt, but something inside of her secretly wanted him to be hurt by her trying to move on.

So instead of keeping quiet, she opened her mouth, "We had quite a lovely time. Reconnecting, and all that."

The instant she said the words, she regretted it. They were so innocent, as if Molly Hooper could say anything hurtful to anything. She even apologized when she had bumped into her desk, earlier. She apologized to a bloody desk. Molly Hooper was just not the type to try and provoke others. And yet...here she was...toying(?) once again, could she flatter herself enough to think she could do such a thing to Sherlock?) with him.

But she was. She could tell by the look on his face. It didn't last long after she had said the words, though.

He really gave a valiant effort to conceal his...feelings? DId he actually have those?

"Erm, Miss Hooper," the words had a distinct edge to them, "I apologize for interrupting your paperwork. Please get back to it," he started to leave the room.

He was already out the door when Molly said, "Wait, Sherlock!"

Either he did not hear her, or he chose to ignore her. Favor the latter.


	11. Libido vs Professionalism

I'm so sad about series 4! As I said about my other story, though, (which you can read here: ) I will be disregarding the events of the new series, since I began this fic before it came out.

I apologized that I have never actually done this, but I want to thank all of my reviewers: discountdiamond, applejacks0808, Sherlocked2003, Phantom's Angel 1987, colormecumberbatched221, nutmuff, and the two guests.

And for anyone wondering: Yes, I will eventually make my way back to the case Sherlock was hired for in the first place :)

There had been, in fact, only one solution to Sherlock's problem. There was only one way that he could reconcile his...sentiments...towards Molly. His case; he needed to solve it with her. He needed to prove to himself that he was still capable of being not only the world's only consulting detective, but also a...lover, to Miss Hooper. His plan seemed utterly flawless when worked out in his mind palace. He would proposition Miss Hooper, she would, of course, accept, and then he would solve the case. Simple.

Then he had walked in to see Molly; he should've realized something had been going on by the traces of hastily applied lipstick around her mouth, he should have noticed the slight coffee stain on her blouse, and he should have noticed the faint blush that still tinged her cheeks before she had even been aware of his presence. His brain had been too flooded with dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin, vasopressin, and testosterone to notice anything that quickly. That was precisely why he needed Molly: to help prove to himself that he still had the mental acuity to solve a case.

Tom. Blasted Tom. He had been the ruination of an otherwise impeccable plan.

This is why Sherlock was once again on his way to see John. He had already texted him several times to prepare John for his arrival, but, Sherlock suspected, his number had been temporarily blocked after the last texting incident. God forbid Sherlock ever send him ninety-three consecutive texts (in less than three minutes!) again.

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John had been having what he would consider an uneventful day. And he liked it that way...sometimes. He had just examined and treated his fourth patient of the day when his intercom buzzed.

"Another one for you, Doctor Watson," John missed hearing his wife's voice announcing his patients to him when he was greeted with the voice of the new receptionist, "Stomach bug."

John leaned forward from the chair in which he was seated to press the button on the intercom, "Alright, send 'em right in."

"John!" Came a dreadful shouting from the hallway.

"Oh, no," he mumbled, putting his head down into his hands.

He didn't need to look up to know who his patient was; he did not _want_ to look up to see who his patient was.

"Why did you block my phone number?" he still was not looking up, "I needed you!"

 **Maybe if I never look at him, he'll just disappear.**

John heard the steps move closer to him, and felt two strong arms grasp his hands and pull them away from his face.

"John..." Sherlock started, crouched down so that he was at eye level with the doctor, "I said I needed you."

John yanked his hands away in protest, "I heard you the first time, Sherlock!"

Sherlock blinked once or twice before answering him, "Then it follows that you should have replied to my statement."

John sighed, and rubbed his face.

"Alright...What do you want this time?"

Sherlock was silent.

John was prompted to sigh again.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Sherlock, if it's about Molly Hooper again, you could just say so instead of acting like a three-year-old!"

"No," Sherlock replied cooly, never missing a beat, "On the contrary, I am acting at _least_ like a five-year-old."

John promised himself that he would do everything he could right this moment to help Sherlock get that pathologist. If he had to endure one more of these ridiculous intrusions on his work day, he was going to do much worse than block Sherlock's mobile number.

 **Wait...If he got together with Molly...would he not just do this more? Every time they had a fight?**

 **And...**

 **Oh, Lord, what if they got married, what if Sherlock had to ask me about sex? Has he ever even done it before? Is his nickname "The Virgin" really true?**

John fidgeted in his chair, making himself uncomfortable by his own thought processes. He cleared his throat in an attempt to have Sherlock break the silence. He failed to notice the prompt, and was still crouched over John, staring at him helplessly.

"Ok..." John started, "First of all, back up about three steps," Sherlock complied immediately, "Now tell me what it is you want my help with."

Sherlock pursed his lips for a second before blurting out, "Tom."

John raised his eyebrows, "Tom? As in Molly's ex-fiance Tom?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes, that would be the Tom to which I'm referring."

"Oh-Kay," John replied slowly, "What about Tom?"

Sherlock made a grumbling noise and muttered something under his breath, which John knew must have been a derogatory remark against his powers of observation.

"Sherlock..."

"Fine, if you must know-" John interrupted him here.

"Sherlock! You're the one who came to me in the first place!"

Sherlock seemed to ponder this momentarily before answering his friend, "You're right-"

"Woah!" John exclaimed, "I am? That's certainly a first."

Sherlock squinted at John.

"Alright, alright," John put up his hands in a resigning gesture, "I apologize for interrupting you..."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Again..." John added, "Now what is it about Tom?"

"Molly is seeing him again."

John was slightly taken aback by the look in Sherlock's eyes. It was easily the most vulnerable he had ever seen him. John could not help but ask,

"Why are you doing all of this, Sherlock? Why now? I thought..." John paused, "I thought you didn't care about that sort of thing."

Sherlock creased his brows together in confusion.

 **Why on earth _am_ I doing this? It makes no sense.**

Sherlock knew it might be possible to reconcile his ever increasing libido to his professional life, but was it really necessary? Would it not just be easier to push all thoughts of the timid little pathologist into the most hidden recesses of his mind where he could never find them again?

Was it really possible that he...

 **No. Not one bit. I do not do that sort of thing.**

"Sherlock?" John called, "Are you in there?"

He took in a rather sharp breath of air, and looked John straight in the eyes.

"All I need to know, John, is how to redirect Molly's attention back to me long enough for me to enact my brilliant scheme."

"Yeah, alright," John replied, purposefully ignoring what Sherlock had just said. He knew he was dying to tell him all about the "brilliant scheme," but frankly, John did not want to know. "I'll help you 'redirect her attention.' How utterly romantic.'"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock was extremely skeptical, to say the least, to execute John's instructions. How he could ever be purposefully attempting to cultivate a romance between himself and Molly, was beyond him. Perhaps it was only to satisfy the desires that has risen up years ago at her flat.

 **If that was all it was, you could have taken care of it a long time ago.**

Every course of thought lead inevitably back one question, the single question he had been trying to avoid the entirety of his adult life:

Was Sherlock Holmes capable of romantic love?

He did not know. But, what he did know was that he was currently headed over to Molly Hooper's flat with the equipment John had described, and an urgent need to make some sense of the unconventional thoughts swirling around inside his head.


	12. Special Delivery

Thanks to mckydstarlight, applejacks0808, Besilea, wonderfullymade139, and coloradoandcolorado1 for reviewing the last chapter. I honestly was planning on ending this story a long time ago, but just reading your reviews makes me want to keep it up. Any feedback is appreciated! Xoxo

* * *

Excerpt from the blog of John H. Watson:

To all of my readers who have been under the impression that Sherlock Holmes has no heart whatsoever, recent events have come to my attention that might just prove to the contrary...

* * *

Molly was absolutely exhausted when her shift had ended. Needless to say, she was greatly relieved when she was able to go home, change into her fluffy pajamas, pour herself a glass of wine, and curl up with Toby and a good book.

The words on the pages only seemed to swirl around when she tried to bring them into focus. Her mind was too full at the moment to grant her undivided attention to the drab novel.

Had she actually hurt Sherlock's feelings earlier that day? Just because she had doodled another man's-a man she had once been engaged to-name on a piece of paper?

She had to admit, when she saw the way his eyes had looked at that moment, she wanted nothing more than to throw her arms around his neck and apologize for ignoring him. But she could not do that. She had been hurt by him-used by him-once already.

 **All that kissing and cuddling in my flat, and what for? So he could run some sort of perverse experiment on human libido? So he could see if he could get far enough to not be called "The Virgin" anymore?**

Molly almost smiled to herself when she recalled the first time Sherlock had ever told her about that.

" _Sherlock?" she asked, pushing herself up from beneath his arms, "Doesn't all of this scare you, in the least?"_

 _He crinkled his brow, "Does what scare me?"_

 _Molly gestured helplessly between the two bodies curled up on her bed, "This. Us. You living with me."_

 _He nuzzled his head into the crook of her collarbone, "It seems perfectly acceptable to me."_

 _She shook her head, "That's not what I asked."_

 _Sherlock sighed and sat up next to her, "I am not totally familiar with...human mating rituals, so yes, in a sense, I am somewhat frightened by it. I don't understand it."_

 _Molly cocked her eyebrows, "'Human mating rituals?'" She asked, almost to herself, "Wait...you've never had sex?" The thought had not occurred to Molly before._

 _Sherlock's eyes widened, and his cheeks blushed faintly, "Yes, well...Umm...I...am married to my work?" He tried feebly to explain._

 **None of that matters anymore** , she thought, shaking the memory from her head.

She could not be so easily dissuaded from her plot to eradicate her feelings for him by one sad glance brought on by her childish doodles. She was a grown woman, for goodness' sake, not some silly, lovesick high-school student, and nothing whatsoever-

She stopped her argument with herself when she heard faint knocking on her door. She cursed under her breath and nudged her portly cat off of her lap.

"Who is it?" She called out.

No response.

She sighed and walked up to the door, opening it without removing the chain off of the door. Sherlock had insisted she put a chain on her door.

 _"If," he stated with emphasis, "I am going to live with you, I need you to stay safe. You know they'll come after me."_

 _Molly tilted her head and gave him a stern look._

 _He sighed, "I know it's not much, Molly, but I want to keep you safe however I can. I don't want you to be hurt because of me."_

She shook the memory away once again.

She peered out the crack, and her eyes widened considerably when she saw the well-groomed man standing on the other side of the door.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock rocked back and forth on his heels, his arms held in an awkward position, evidently to hide something he had behind his back.

"What on earth are you doing here?" She asked, with a note of worry in her voice.

Sherlock grimaced and replied to her through clenched teeth, "Will you please just open your door for me, Molly?"

"Y-yes, right," she murmured apologetically, while desperately trying to unlatch the chain on her door with her shaky fingers.

She opened the door fully, and gasped slightly when she got a complete view of the man waiting outside her door.

His hair was curled to perfection, all his clothes had recently been cleaned and pressed, and, Molly's personal favorite, he wore the shirt. The purple shirt. The way it hugged his lanky body always made butterflies appear in her stomach.

He made no attempt to enter her flat; he only stood with his back rigidly straight, and a serious look in his eyes.

"Are you...are you OK?" Molly asked tentatively.

"Fine, quite fine," he replied.

"Ummm...won't you come in?" she asked, gesturing to the inside of her flat.

He moved in slowly, turning his body so she still could not see whatever he was so desperately trying to conceal behind his back.

Molly tried to peer behind his back, but he removed one hand and held it out in front of her in a dismissive gesture, "I will get to that soon enough. Right now, I have a proposition for you."

* * *

 **Perhaps this is not the best idea John has ever given me. In fact, when has he ever given me an idea of value? He works perfectly well to stimulate genius in me, but honestly...Why on earth am I here?**

He glanced down disapprovingly at what John had practically commanded him to wear. Apparently Molly quite favored him in purple. It must have been obvious if even John could tell-So how had Sherlock managed to miss it?

Sherlock had been pacing outside the front of Molly's building for what he had estimated to be an hour at this point. He had thrice convinced himself to do as John said, and four times convinced himself to return to 221B, and forget altogether about his thoughts on Molly and Tom.

 **Are they thoughts? I rather thought they were more like...feelings.**

He made a face to himself, which, he noticed, caused people on the sidewalk to stop and glare at him. They were lucky he had not started retching at the mere thought of that horrid word.

Sherlock had continuosly pondered why he had continued to pursue his thoughts about Molly. What on earth could possibly prompt him to...to feel so much for that blasted woman?

It was not the way that she looked. He did grant that she was a relatively attractive woman, with a pleasing figure; but, if Sherlock Holmes wanted a woman for her body, he knew he could certainly find one elsewhere.

No, it was not that.

If there was one thing that Molly Hooper had proven to him over the past few years, it was that she had been stronger than he had ever given her credit for. She helped him fake his death, yes, but she had done so much more than that. She held up the facade that he was gone with John-something he was almost positive he could not have done if their roles had been reversed. She had kept strong when he left her. She had found someone new.

 **Dear God, what a horrible man she must think I am. I left her.**

Sherlock had often thought, with no small degree of guilt, of the pain he must have caused Molly when he had left her. For months, he collapsed at the mere thought of her. He left her, because...because...he simply had to.

He recalled a thought he had on the first night he had kissed her.

 **Never before have I felt this way about another human being.**

And that is exactly why he had left her. He could not allow himself to feel that way. It ruined his work, it put her in danger, it compromised the use of his mind palace...

But Lord, it had been worth it. Just to feel the woman in his arms, just to be able to kiss her at night, just to be able to have someone he could protect, someone he could...

 **No, that is exactly what you are avoiding.**

Love. How could he allow himself to ever love someone?

 **Then why are you pursuing Molly?**

 **It's an experiment. I need to see exactly how it will affect my mind. I need to see if I can balance my body with my mind.**

 _"Are you sure that's all you want, Sherlock?"_ Mary's voice came rushing to his head.

 _"Why are you doing all of this, Sherlock?"_ He heard John speaking next.

"Oh, hell! Quit tormenting me, you two!" He screamed in the front of the building. Several men and woman turned to glare at him.

He entered the building.

He climbed the stairs.

He kept his delivery safely behind his back.

He found Molly's door.

He knocked.

He waited.

 **Perhaps this really is a terrible idea. Not to mention a humiliating one. Imagine, Sherlock Holmes bringing a woman-**

"Who is it?" He heard Molly call out from inside the flat. He had made himself to flustered too attempt to answer her in a coherent statement.

He heard footsteps approach and the doorknob start to jiggle.

 **Is it too late to return to 221B?**

"Sherlock?" He heard Molly ask in surprise. He couldn't look at her. How had John convinced him to do this again? He rocked back and forth nervously.

 **I don't get nervous.**

"What on earth are you doing here?"

He felt his heart pound.

 **Are you quite sure? I do believe all the physical signs have manifested themselves at this point.**

"Will you please just open your door for me, Molly?" he said with some effort.

"Y-yes, right." The door shut again for a moment, and he fervently hoped it would not open again.

Unfortunately, it did. And he froze.

"Are you...are you OK?" he heard Molly ask through his own swirling thoughts.

"Fine, quite fine," he replied curtly. At least, he believed he did. He was currently too engaged in plotting the murder of a doctor that he knew.

"Ummm...Won't you come in?" Molly gestured to the inside of her flat. He noticed a fat orange cat eyeing him suspiciously from the other side of the room.

 **Remind me,** he argued with himself, **why are you going through with this?**

He entered carefully, turning to keep his delivery from prying eyes. He held a hand out to stop Molly from speaking, "I will get to that soon enough. Right now I have a proposition for you."


	13. The box

Thank you to mckydstarlight, Wonderfullymade139, and the guest for reviewing the last chapter.

Ya'll go and follow my tumblr account (my URL is i-like-your-potato).

Sherlock cleared his throat, "Molly, for the past week, I have been intently trying decide whether or not I could ever be able to retain the full use of my mind, while giving into some of the more...pleasurable urges of the body," he took her blush to be incentive enough to continue, "I have come to ask you to assist me in a simple task."

Molly tilted her head in confusion, "What do you need, Sherlock?"

Sherlock bit his lip when he remembered another time she had said that to him. She really had done so much for him. Perhaps he would someday be able to express to her just how grateful he was.

"I..." He looked down at his feet, "Hang on," he said, while pulling his arms from behind his back, "John told me to bring this to you."

Molly eyed the heart-shaped box of candy that he handed her suspiciously.

"Are they poisoned?" She asked.

"What? No! No!" He repeated emphatically.

 **Yes, I should definitely plot John's murder when I return home.**

 **If I return home. It would be more practical to have Molly keep me here for the night. It seems the logical way to run an experiment like this.**

Molly carefully removed the lid from the box, and examined each piece in turn.

"Are you absolutely sure, Sherlock?"

He let out an exasperated sigh, and ran a hand through his curls, "Molly, why on _earth_ would John tell me to bring you poisoned chocolates?"

She cocked her eyebrows, still eyeing the candies, "Well..." She began, trying to think of a reason, "Wait, why _did_ John tell you to bring me chocolates in the first place?"

"Ah," he began, "That would be so I could ease my way into asking your help in enacting my brilliant scheme."

"Brilliant...Scheme?" Molly finally looked up at her interlocutor.

Sherlock smiled, "Yes, you see, I find myself ever so steadily growing an urge to engage in, what a lesser mind would consider, romantic encounters."

The edges of Molly's lips turned down, "And I'm supposed to help you with that, how?" She drew out the last word of her sentence.

"I thought I could run an experiment," he said, blatantly ignoring the advice Mary had given him, "By having you help me solve my case, while engaging in...said romantic encounters."

He had expected her to be pleased. He had just asked her to make love to him. Well, in a round about way.

She took a moment to process what he had just asked her. He was expecting her to ponder the question for a few seconds, immediately recognize its brilliance, and assent gladly.

He was shocked when he saw her eyes start to tear up.

"An...experiment?" she whispered.

Sherlock crinkled his brow, but tried to retain a calm exterior, "Yes. Does that displease you somehow?"

"I was right, Sherlock..." She paused to sniffle a bit, "I was right, wasn't I?"

Sherlock almost rolled his eyes at her seemingly unprompted display of emotion, "Right about what, Molly? I do wish you would just answer my proposal."

She glared at him, "It was all just some perverse little experiment on human libido. Just something you could get off on for awhile, until you decided you had no use for me anymore."

"What _are_ you talking about?" He asked, too annoyed by her refusal to answer his question to realize what she was obviously referring to.

"You used me," she managed to choke out, "All that time ago, in my flat," the words triggered the memories in Sherlock's head, "You used me so you could make yourself feel good. You kept me around while I made you feel good about yourself, and the moment that feeling left, so did you."

Years' worth of repressed emotions started to flow from her heart all at once.

Not even Sherlock was unmoved by her display.

 **She does think I'm awful,** he thought, as, though he would not admit it, tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

And he knew that she was right to feel that way, too. He had given her every reason to believe that her statement was true. He could barely admit to himself, much less to her, the real reason he had left.

She shook her head in frustration, "You know, Tom was right about you, too. He said...he told me..." She was unable to finish her statement, but Sherlock could think of plenty of ways to fill in the blanks. She had a particular way of saying that man's name that made his skin crawl.

"Oh, Tom," he spat out.

Molly inhaled sharply, "Yes, Sherlock, _Tom_. Tom the man I used to be engaged to. Tom the man I used to love more than anything, the one man I thought could get me as close to being happy as I could have been without you and your perverse 'experiments' showing up at my door. The same man who left me when he _deduced,_ " she said the word bitterly, "That I was in love with another man!"

Sherlock drew his head back slightly, "I'm sorry, Molly, I didn't know."

"Oh, really?" she asked sarcastically, "The great consulting detective couldn't figure out something as obvious as that?" She threw the box of chocolates he had brought at his feet, "Take your chocolates, and your brilliant schemes, and you experiments, and please just leave me alone." Her last sentence held no trace of bitterness. She was pleading with him to go.

He turned the way he had come and left without trying to comfort Molly, or uttering another word.

* * *

Molly laid on her bed and buried her face in her hands. She didn't cry. She refused to cry.

She knew, she knew, all along that everything he ever did with her was a terrible experiment. She told herself that over and over again.

The difference was that before, she had told herself it was all an experiment to comfort herself. If she could believe that she never had his love in the first place, then there would not have been much lost when he left her afterwards. Now that he himself had confirmed it, she no longer found the idea to be so comforting.

Was it so wrong to have hoped she could make Sherlock Holmes love her?

* * *

Sherlock never left her building. He paced up and down the hall, he walked countless flights of steps...he did everything but leave. Strangely enough, he did not want to leave Molly Hooper. He could not understand. Every time he pictured he, he felt a stab of pain to his chest, and he knew it would only be exacerbated by his putting distance between himself and Molly.

 **She's right, you know,** he argued with himself.

 **Why shouldn't she be? You never told her how much you...How much you...**

 **Do I love Molly Hooper?**

If he did, he had certainly never let himself believe it before. But he had relied on Molly so many times throughout his life, and, ironically, his death. He trusted her. He would even say that he respected her. He knew she was more clever than she ever let on, and more intelligent than he allowed himself to see.

Could all of that add up to love?

 **No.**

There was one thing he was missing. One thing so blatantly obvious that he would have hit himself right on the spot, if he had thought it necessary.

His experiment was not really an experiment at all. It was nothing of the sort, and he knew it. It was a romantic attachment cleverly disguised as a scientific endeavor. He had almost fooled himself into believing it. It was fairly obvious that Molly believed it already.

 **Oh, what a complete and utter jackass I've been.**

He sat down on the stairs he had been climbing.

 **You cannot allow yourself to be blinded by chemicals and hormones.**

 **Maybe I want to be blinded.**

Sherlock's mind was never at ease. It raced out of control. He had resorted to extremes to try and get it to slow down if even for a second. Oddly enough, being close to Molly calmed his thoughts. He wanted to be by her.

 **You may have just ruined your chances to ever be by her again.**

Sherlock knew what it was he had to do, and he did not need to consult John this time.


	14. Prove It

Sherlock quit his pacing and returned to Molly's door. He raised his hand to knock, but stopped short.

 **Why am I going to such absurd lengths to pursue a**...He could barely even allow the thought, **A relationship...with Molly Hooper.**

 **You know why, and you're going to tell her yourself,** he argued.

 **What's the point in doing that?**

Sherlock loitered by her door while arguing with himself. He had almost convinced himself to give up on his infernal sentiments and return home, when the door opened to Molly grasping a bag of trash. Her eyes widened for a second, and she tried to shut the door. Her efforts were too late to keep Sherlock from pushing his arm between her and the frame, and shoving it open.

"Sherlock!" she yelled, "What on earth do you think you're doing?"

 **I do not know what I think I am doing.**

He pushed his way into the room, "I came to rectify our situation," he tried to explain.

Molly glared at him. For some inexplicable reason, he felt the need to acknowledge it.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Molly started breathing quickly and dropped the bag she had been holding, "Sherlock..."

Sherlock cocked his head, and gave her an inquiring look.

"Are you actually...D-do you mean? Sherlock, for how smart you're always telling people you are, you know absolutely _nothing_!"

Sherlock recoiled at her statement, reaching for the door, he calmly replied, "If you are going to yell at me, at least try to keep the neighbors from having something to gossip about."

Molly sighed and crossed her arms over her chest, "Sherlock..."

"Molly," he started, holding a hand up to silence her, "I am perfectly aware of what a repulsive example of a human being I am-" **Why on earth am I admitting this to her?** -"If you just give yourself a moment to calm down, I will sit quietly and let you recite your list of grievances."

Molly's eyebrows shot up, "You mean...You'll actually listen to me for once?"

Sherlock put his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels, "That is what I am proposing."

A minute later, Sherlock was seated on Molly Hooper's couch while she stood in the middle of the room, pacing between her words. He sat quietly, listening to her speech intently.

"Sherlock," she started, "I-I'm not one of your bloody experiments-you can't just treat me like I mean everything to you one day, and then up and leave the next. You hurt me...You hurt me worse than anyone else in my life ever has. And I let you, I always let you," she stopped to wipe her eyes, "I just sit there and I let you hurt me every time. Always," She paused, "You can't just walk in here and tell me you want help with...an experiment. I'm more than that, Sherlock, and I'm tired of you treating me like that's all I am. I don't know if that's all I am to you, but if it is..." Tears trailed down her face, "I would prefer to be nothing at all."

Sherlock stared down at his hands, "Is that all?"

"For right now," She replied, "Give me a moment and I'm sure I can think of something else."

He looked up at her, "May I be allowed to speak now?"

She nodded.

"Molly Hooper," he said, standing to his feet, "I...I came to..." He stopped.

She tilted her head.

 **Tell her what started it.**

"Molly, do you remember that day I came to you in the lab, and you started calling me 'Mr. Holmes?'" He crinkled his nose.

"Yes," she replied, "Yes, I remember."

He took a deep breath, "You told me I had come for one of three things. All of them involved using you somehow. Well," he exhaled a shaky breath, "You were wrong. That's not why I had come at all."

"What do you mean?"

"Earlier that day, you hugged John. I felt," he cringed, unable to finish the thought, "Well...Maybe that's it, I _felt_. I did not know what it was, so I came to see if I could analyse the situation further. I felt the same thing when I saw you writing Tom's name on your papers. I must admit," he strode towards Molly, "I am starting to get quite tired of feeling."

Molly backed away from him. He resumed his speech without trying to sound hurt.

"Mary was trying to help me find a way to balance the use of my mind with the wants of my body. How did you term it? I believe it was, 'a perverse experiment in human libido,' or something similar. That's what I believed it was. Or possibly is was what I convinced myself it was. But, Molly, do you remember when I first kissed you?"

She nodded.

"Well, I had convinced myself the same then. But I knew it was more when I had to," He swallowed, "When I had to leave."

Sherlock stopped. He was disgusted with the emotion he was showing. Molly was not even receptive of it. She had steadily been inching herself further and further away from him during the course of his speech.

"Molly," he resumed, overcome with a new, unfamiliar wave of feeling, "What I'm trying to say is...It was never an experiment with you. I wanted you. I needed you. I want you now. I swear to you it is not a perverse experiment. I myself only realized it a few minutes ago."

He stopped when he felt something pricking at the corners of his eyes. A teardrop.

 **Blast.**

Molly said nothing to him, she just stared, no emotion evident in the expression on her face.

"Molly, please," he choked out, "Please forgive me for the hurt I have caused you. I lo-" He cut himself off.

 **This needs to stop.**

He swallowed, and attempted his best to put on a stoic expression.

Molly still had not moved once. If she did not care, neither would he.

"As you seem to have resigned yourself to meaning nothing to me, I will take my leave of you now."

 **This was a terrible idea.**

He had placed his hand on the doorknob when he heard a small sniffle followed by the words, "Prove it."

He turned around. Molly's back was still to him.

"What?" He asked.

She turned to face him, "I know you heard me," she answered, "And I said prove it, Sherlock Holmes. Prove to me that I am more to you than an experiment."

He swallowed, doing his best to hide what he felt, "What do you need?"


	15. The List

Alright, I am fairly sure that I forgot to mention everyone that reviewed chaoter 13, so now I am going to have to do it for both 13 and 14. Here goes: Thanks to Andristasia Grey-Darcy (chapter 13), SapphyreLight (13), mckydstarlight (13, 14), Guest (13), Emilia B (13), SammyKatz (14), carmengaar (14), and Guest (14).

I really appreciate reviews, they keep me wanting to write. The more reviews, the quicker I will try to get out the next chapter.

* * *

Molly Hooper rubbed her eyes sleepily as she stared down at the paper in front of her. She hazarded a glance at the clock.

 **2:00 AM**

She had been writing her list for hours now.

 _"What do you need?"_

 _Molly could tell by the look in his eyes that he was serious. Interesting. She had thought she had seen him emotional before; of course, those times, it almost always turned out he was just trying to manipulate her into doing something or the other for him._

 _But this..._

 _Something was off about the way he was looking at her. It was almost as if he had been genuinely touched by their conversation. Almost as if he actually...cared about her._

 _Her mouth dropped open just slightly._

 _"S-Sherlock...I just can't tell you how to prove that you care about me!"_

 _He tilted his head in confusion, "Why not? Would that not be the most logical way to prove that I am not actually performing a 'perverse experiment in human libido?'" He wrinkled his nose as he repeated Molly's phrase of choice._

 _She didn't know how to explain to him that she could in no way show him what he had asked. Years of knowing him, and she could not think of one way Sherlock Holmes showed other people that he cared._

 _ **I could always have him jump off a building,** She cringed internally at her thought._

 _Would telling him what to do be forcing him to display an emotion she was not entirely convinced was sincere?_

 _"If I just tell you what to do, then it's not really you showing me that you care."_

 _"Why not?" he asked curtly._

 _"Well...Um..." She could not grasp the words to express what she was thinking._

 _"Hang on," he held up his hand to silence her stammering, "I believe you wish for me to exercise my imagination and come up with my own ways to vie for your affections-is that correct?"_

 _She nodded._

 _He sighed, "I would think you would have realized that I am rather lacking in the area of romantic abilities," he glanced at the box of chocolates she had thrown on the ground, "So, to be frank, I have absolutely no idea what to do," he smiled faintly._

 _She shook her head slightly, "So...What do we do?"_

 _"He exhaled sharply, "You, Molly Hooper, are going to make me a list."_

She looked down critically at what she had written:

 **1\. Watch a movie with Me** -She was not sure how this could prove his affections for her. Possibly because he found almost every film in existence to be dull and insipid?

 **2\. Take me out to a nice restaurant-** Alright, she knew instinctively that Sherlock would take one glance at point number two, and mock her for being so cliched. But he wanted to prove...What exactly was it he was trying to prove to her?

 **Sherlock Holmes...Is interested in me?**

She had not even bothered to let the thought sink in yet. Sherlock Holmes had asked her to go and solve a crime.

Was that his version of a date?

She took a moment from writing her list to try and process what had happened earlier.

First, Sherlock had entered her flat, handed her a box of chocolates, and asked her to assist him with an experiment,

Second, she had point-blank refused him, and, for all intents and purposes, kicked him out of her flat.

Third and final, he had barged his way back in, stumbled over an apology, and somewhere along the way, tried to convince her that he felt a genuine affection for her.

What was it he had said?

 _"Romantic abilities."_

 **Romantic.**

 **Oh, marvelous.**

 **All at once, I manage to reattract the interest of a man I was once to marry, and the interest of a sociopath that I never thought I would be able to have in the first place.**

 **What am I supposed to do?**

 _"You, Molly Hooper, are going to make a list."_

She sighed, and shook her head slightly. Her eyes wandered about the room, finally landing on a small box that had remained unnoticed by her throughout most of the night. She arose from where she was seated and walked over to pick it up. Walking back to where she was seated previously, she opened the lid, seeing for the first time that a small note was tucked inside.

 _Dearest Molly_

 _XXX_

She tried to prevent herself from grinning like a crazy person. Unfortunately, she couldn't.

 _"A-a list, Sherlock?"_

 _He nodded, "That's correct. Make me a list. Anything you would like for me to do for you. If you want me to prove that I am not just being an idiot, if you want me to prove that this is not a perverse experiment, then Molly Hooper, make me a list."_

How was she supposed to do that? The things she had written might prove for someone else-maybe Tom-that they cared, but Sherlock? She could not even understand why he was suddenly showing interest in her again. He had not done that since he had come to stay with her after his "death."

She was having a hard time making herself believe that Sherlock Holmes was being sincere.

 **What if all of this is still some sort of facade?**

She pondered the thought for a moment before discarding it.

 **He has nothing to gain from all of this.**

 **Why was he doing this all of the sudden?**

She remembered for a moment how wonderful it had been when he decided to kiss her that night. She did not understand that either, but it in no way diminished the pleasure she had instantly felt.

She wanted more then.

She wanted more now.

But how could she ever trust him again?

She smiled softly when she looked down at the third point on her list, and moved her pen to write down a fourth when her phone buzzed in her pocket.

 _Tom: I know it's late. Sorry. I need to talk to you._

 _Now?_

 _Tom: If you can._

 _Where?_

 _Tom: I'll come over._

She sighed.


	16. Chapter 16

Hi, my computer broke so I will be on hiatus until it is fixed. Sorry. Love you guys! ️


	17. Point Number Three

Molly tapped her fingers repeatedly against her knee. Tom would be at her doorstep any second now. God only could know what he wanted from her. She glanced at the clock.

 **2:30**

 **Any second now.**

Even expecting it, she jumped slightly when she heard the knock on her door. She rose up to answer it.

Another knock.

"I'm coming!" She called out. She rubbed one hand across her face and sighed. She did not want to be dealing with Tom right now.

She laid her hand on the door knob. She stared at her visitor and blinked several times.

"Molly," the man started, "I know it's late, I'm sorry-"

"Sherlock!" She interrupted, "Just what on earth do you think you're doing here?"

He stared down at her with his nose crinkled, "At what point did I become an unwelcome visitor at your flat?"

Molly's eyes widened when she heard footsteps coming down the hallway. She glanced up at Sherlock, hoping to communicate her thoughts to him with just a look.

"Oh, no," he sighed. Apparently he could read her mind, after all. "May I ask just why Tom has come to visit you? Or have you changed your mind already about...this?"

Molly tried to smile, "No. I have not changed my mind, Mr. Holmes," he cringed. She giggled, "He's just...choosing a bad time to be difficult."

She poked her head out the doorway, then pulled Sherlock in by his coat and shut the door behind him.

"I estimate we have thirty seconds until he quits loitering, and decides to knock on the door," Sherlock stated assuredly.

"What do you want to do for thirty seconds?" Molly grinned, running a slender finger across the exposed portion of his chest where he had left his shirt unbuttoned. He skipped the scarf tonight.

Sherlock's face turned serious, "Actually, I would like to take this moment to confirm an old hypothesis of mine. May I?"

"I suppose you could try," She replied.

Sherlock sucked in a breath, "Tom left you because of me, didn't he?"

Molly's eyes turned glassy, and she exhaled a shaky breath, "Yes. Yes he did. I thought I implied that"

"Must have slipped my mind. That's been happening lately."

Sherlock's brows knit together, and he placed an awkwardly reassuring hand against her arm.

 **Knock, Knock**.

Molly sighed, and directed Sherlock away from the doorway.

She opened the door, "Hello, Tom."

"Molly, I-" He stopped short when he saw Sherlock standing behind her, "What is _he_ doing here?"

Molly looked back and forth between the men, "Why shouldn't he be here. It's my flat, isn't it?"

"But it's two-thirty in the morning!"

"So?" She answered, "You're also here at two-thirty in the morning." She could almost feel Sherlock smiling behind her.

"Yes, well..."

"Won't you come in?" She asked with a polite smile.

He stepped through the doorway, all the while deliberately avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

He pulled Molly to the side by her arm, "I was hoping to speak to you alone."

She glanced over her shoulder. Sherlock left the room without a word. Molly made her way to the sofa and motioned for Tom to sit opposite her.

"Alright, " She started, "Just what made you come and see me at two-thirty in the morning?" She restrained herself from yawning.

"W-well..." He stammered, "I know I asked you once. You said you didn't know. But Molly," he reached between them and took her unyielding hands in his, "Couldn't you ever see your way to giving me another chance?"

Molly looked down at the floor and pulled her hands away. "I know this is important to you, but why did you need to ask me this again at this hour? Could it not have just waited until the morning?"

"That's the thing," He started enthusiastically, rising from his seat, "I'm moving. To America."

Molly snapped her head back, "America? Why?"

"I was offered a job. I want to see the world. Learn new things," Molly almost snickered at his dramatics.

 **Not that Sherlock is any less dramatic,** she chided herself.

"What does this have to do with me?" She asked.

He turned his head inquiringly, "Isn't it obvious? I want you to come with me. We can start over; or, better yet, pick up where we left things off before."

Molly stared at her hands clasped together in her lap. She wished desparately that Sherlock had not left the room.

Here was the man she _once_ loved with all of her heart. In the other room was the man she had _always_ loved with all of her heart. One she knew could be warm, cheerful, and caring. The other, she knew was hurtful, perverse, and rude.

But in the other room, was the man that had come to her that night wanting nothing more than her forgiveness.

In this room there was a man wanting her forgiveness.

What else was she supposed to do?

"Tom, I-" She cleared her throat, "I appreciate the offer, but I can't."

He swallowed, "Why not?"

She stood and looked him in the eye, "You know perfectly well why not. In fact, you've always known why not."

"It's him, isn't it?"

"Yes, Tom. It is."

He pressed his lips together and shook his head. His fists balled up.

Tom walked over to her door, "I suppose I should be going now. I've got a busy day tomorrow."

Molly walked over to him and smiled softly, "I hope you'll be happy."

He looked at her one last time before exiting.

* * *

"Molly Hooper," she jumped when she heard the voice, "I'll have you know that I heard every single word of that conversation."

She blushed deeply, "Oh, well, I-"

He smiled.

Sherlock walked over to her desk and picked up the list she had been writing. He did his routine nose crinkle, and she could tell he was not impressed by her choices.

"I know they're silly, but I-"

"Actually," he cut her off, "There is one I think that we can get started on right now."

"Oh?" She questioned, "Which one might that be?"

He placed the paper back down and answered casually, "The third one."

She let out a nervous laugh, "Oh. That one."

He crossed the room over to where she stood by the door and took her hand, leading her to the center of the room.

"It's rather small, but I suppose it will have to suffice."

He laid one hand on her mid-section, and held her hand gingerly with the other.

He leaned into her, "I know there's no music, but just pretend," he purred softly into her ear.

"I don't know how to do this," she murmured.

"Just follow my lead," he said, glancing down at their feet.

Occasionally, he offered her advice as to where her next step should be, but he soon found that she was an excellent learner without his having to show her every move. Molly soon began to softly hum.

"Music," she announced.

"Yes," he answered.

Moving in a circle, he pulled her tighter against his body, and buried his face into her soft hair.

"I'm sorry, Molly," he said, between gentle kisses on the soft parts of her neck. "I am sorry for everything I did to you."

"I told you once," she replied, barely able to breathe, "You'll have to prove it to me."

"I shall certainly endeavor to."

* * *

Well, that was a long break between chapters. I actually had a lot of fun writing this one. Please review! Also, if you haven't read it yet, I have another Sherlolly story that I am currently writing. Check it out; you can find it on my profile. :)


	18. End of Lesson

Well, everyone, this is the last chapter of this story. I love all of you guys for following, reviewing, and favoriting. Thank y'all so much for everything!

Sherlock had been coaching Molly's dancing for two months now. The other requests on that list of hers were ludicrous, but he went through with every single one of them. He even watched a sappy, sentimental romance with her. He grit his teeth and dug his nails into his leg, but when Molly curled up against his side, he loosened his grip.

He was absolutely correct about her innate qualities of a good dancer. She just needed a bit of refinement. In all honesty, Sherlock did not want to let on to Molly that she would not need his help for much longer. He liked their current arrangement, and he saw no need to be changing it any time soon.

Their current arrangement being: Sherlock arrived at her flat every night promptly at six O'clock. They ate dinner together, and as soon as they felt able, Sherlock would teach her a new dance, or, as the case may have been, a little more of the dance she was currently learning. Afterwards, he would make an innocent advance, which she would promptly refuse.

Honestly, he was not sure just how long she could keep doing that. He thought he had made it clear to her that this was more than a perverse experiment in human libido.

One more thing, which John so helpfully pointed out in his blog, of all places.

Sherlock Holmes was happy.

 _Excerpt from the blog of John Watson:_

 _Have any of you seen pictures of Sherlock in the paper? Apart from the one of him in the hat? Well, usually he has a nice, big scowl on his face. However, a recent publication has a shot of him smiling after solving his latest case. That's right, smiling._

 _What on earth caused this, you ask. Well, I had to make a few deductions, but according to my logic, Sherlock's new stretching of his facial muscles is a result of his having become the second half of a couple. At least, as close as Sherlock can get to something like that._

 _Anyway, he's happy. Sherlock Holmes is happy._

Sherlock immediately wanted to point out the fallacies of this article. In the first place, his facial muscles got plenty of exercise. Second, he and Molly were not a couple. Last, he wanted to say that he was not happy.

But he took a moment to think about it before refuting John's statement.

Was he happy?

His mouth twitched. He grabbed his coat and headed out the door.

* * *

Molly Hooper sat up on her couch and yawned.

She must have fallen asleep; she glanced at her watch.

 **5:30**

She jerked her head up.

 **Sherlock will be coming over soon,** she thought.

Molly had intended to spend her weekend tidying up her flat, but working the late shift on Friday had exhausted her. Sherlock was not pleased to have missed their lesson, either.

She got to her feet and walked down the hall to her bedroom. She smiled when she saw the list hung up on her wall, beside her mirror.

 **3\. Teach me to dance.**

Molly knew the lessons were going to stop soon. She didn't know what else he could teach her now; he knew only a few types of dances (though the ones that he could do, he did excellently). She doubted there was a crying need for that skill in crime work, though.

She did not want them to end. Molly had absolutely no idea what would happen between them when they did. Sherlock Holmes was not the kind of man who liked to go out on dinner dates, or take in a movie. Molly giggled when she remembered the faces he'd made during their viewing of _The Notebook._

She almost felt guilty for refusing his advances over and over. She knew it was teasing, and she knew she'd give in one day.

But was sure going to have to work for that day.

She jumped when she heard a knock on her door.

 **It's way too early for that to be Sherlock,** she thought.

She looked down at her sweatpants and crinkled her nose before running to answer her door.

"Sherlock?" She asked, while swinging the door inward.

He raised his eyebrows back at her in response. She stared back at him.

He stood out in the hallway rocking back and forth on his heels.

"Are you not going to come in?"

"Oh," he replied, stepping forward, "yes, I do believe that would be helpful."

Molly eyed him suspiciously, "What are you doing here so early?"

He ran one hand through his dark curls, "I have come to a very unwelcome conclusion."

Molly swallowed.

 **Here it comes,** she thought. **I thought this time he would be different, but I was wrong. I was so wrong.**

She felt tears stinging the corner of her eyes. She kept her head down as she closed the door.

"Oh," she finally answered, "What might that conclusion be?"

"That would be," he began, "That you make me very..."

She cringed.

"H-happy," he sputtered out.

She blinked, then looked up at the man in front if her.

"I...make you happy? And that's an unwelcome conclusion?" She did not know whether to be relieved or offended.

He walked past her into her living room, and sat down. He motioned for her to do the same, and she took a seat next to him on the couch.

"Yes, it is unwelcome."

He offered no explanation, so Molly just tilted her head and remained silent.

 _Silence makes others uncomfortable,_ he once told her, _keep quiet and they're more likely to give you an answer._

He pursed his lips, "You learned well."

She nodded.

"It...It's entirely unwelcome because...It frightens me."

Molly exhaled a breath she did not know she was holding back, "Sherlock...Is that all?"

"For now, yes."

"And you came all the way just to tell me that?"

He grimaced, "Well, I _was_ coming here anyway..."

She giggled. He took up her hand in his.

"That's not all, you know."

She felt her heart beat faster in expectation.

"What is it?"

"Well," he exhaled a shaky breath, "You know, I'm sure you know, that your dancing is...decent," she made a face at him, "there's really not all that much to teach you now. You can keep practicing with me, but I'm sure that would not nearly be as..." he looked into her eyes, "fun." The last word came out as a curse.

"It would not be quite the same..." he trailed off, "Molly?"

She looked down at their entwined hands, "Yes?"

"Do I...Do I make you happy?"

She swallowed.

Did Sherlock make her happy? She was not sure exactly what was going on between them. Some days she felt she knew him inside and out, like a book she'd read four times over. Other times she felt as though she was staring into the eyes of a complete stranger.

She knew they weren't exactly a couple, but did that mean that she couldn't be happy all the same?

"Yes," she replied, "You make me very happy."

He smiled.

"Well, seeing as how I make you happy, and you do the same for me...Molly, have you noticed that I like for everything to happen just according to my plans?"

He said it so innocently, she could not help but laugh, "Yes, Sherlock, I think I've caught on to that."

"And that I detest changes?"

"Yes," she answered, "that, too."

"Based on all this evidence, and the soon-to-be cancellation of our lessons together, don't you think it would be a good idea if we..."

She raised her eyebrows.

"We could get married, Molly. If you want; if you don't, we can move in together. I...I want to make you happy. I don't want this," he gestured helplessly, "to end."

Molly almost choked, "You...you would really want that?"

Sherlock looked her in the eyes, "I don't think there is a thing I have ever wanted more."

Molly's eyes teared up.

"Except..." he began again, "A serial killer. Fascinating, you know."

"Sherlock!" she yelled, and slapped him on the hand. He chuckled in response.

"Is that a yes?"

"You do realize we've never even been on a date, right?" She asked, incredulous.

"Does that insipid movie not count?"

"...No..."

"Ah, well. What does that matter? You've solved crimes with me. Is that not close enough?"

She remained silent.

"Molly Hopper," he prodded, "Will you marry me?"

She looked into his swirling blue eyes, and gently ran her fingers through his lush hair. She had pictured it so many times before.

Had he done enough to prove himself to her? Possibly. Possibly not. But he'd begged. And he'd compromised. He stated that he cared, and he followed through with what he promised her.

Molly knew, she just knew, that tonight would be the night she finally gave in to Sherlock Holmes.

"Yes, I'll marry you."


	19. Note from Sherlock

Note from Sherlock Holmes:

In the author's overly-enthusiastic endeavor to showcase my relationship with Molly Hooper, she failed to wrap up a loose end. Honestly, how none of you people could have noticed such a thing…

The case of Hilton Cubitt:

If you are wondering, which I'm sure you are—why are you?- Molly Hooper did assist me with this case. Since the initial contact with the client, many months elapsed before a new message was discovered. As I suspected, he left a note in the garden where this time he knew, only Mrs. Cubitt would be able to see it.

Perhaps he did not count on her sharing it with her husband. You see, Mrs. Cubitt lead a rather...shady lifestyle back in the states. Of such, she became involved with a man having connections to organized crime.

That's where the code comes in. At first glance, it appears to only be a crude drawing—a proper advantage if you're avoiding detection.

Now, you might be wondering how exactly I broke the code, but God knows you people are only interested in my personal affairs with Miss Hooper (hereby referred to as soon-to-be Mrs. Holmes). She did assist me in breaking the code; once I explained the general principles involved, she picked up on it rather quickly—quite like her dancing.

From the content within the messages, I was able to glean that she had been engaged to a Mr. Crane in the states—the same Mr. Crane being involved in organized crime.

Because of such, and her previous relationship to him (which she broke off after having met Mr. Cubitt while he was on holiday in the states) she panicked.

The messages themselves were pleas for her to return to America with her former paramour. When confronted by myself and soon-to-be Mrs. Holmes, Mrs. Cubitt gave the story from her side (and she confirmed my at the time shot-in-the-dark [I never guess] about the organized crime).

Consequently, the authorities were alerted. A few officers stood outside the following night (at my suggestion, of course), and were able to apprehend Mr. Crane. Currently, the only charges pressed are for trespassing, but I find it unlikely that he will return to their house anytime soon, as they have purchased two full-grown German Shepherds.

As for me and soon-to-be Mrs. Holmes, that is none of your business, and I've already gotten John to delete most of his sentimental writings about us in his blog. However, a few seemed to have escaped into the hands of some silly writer girl. Can't any of you do something about that?

-SH


End file.
